


won't you let me be yours (pining!Geralt)

by dandelionslute



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jealous!Geralt, M/M, fuckboy!Jaskier, oblivious!Jaskier, pining!geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionslute/pseuds/dandelionslute
Summary: It hurts. Geralt watches Jaskier flirt and fuck, but never with him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 125





	1. chapter one

Geralt watches night after night as Jaskier prances around inns drinking sweet wine and taking pretty girls by the lips and sitting in mens laps. Too many times has Geralt come back from the bar with a drink in each hand, only to find Jaskier lip locked with a man with strong hands, while a woman tangles her delicate fingers through his hair. More than once, Geralt has walked in on Jaskier with a bare naked woman straddled a top him, or the other way round. Once or twice, a man with his back against the wall and Jaskier on his knees in front.

It hurts. Geralt watches Jaskier flirt and fuck, but never with him.

This particular night, he opens and closes the room to their door in one quick movement, after spying Jaskier all tangled up in the sheets with a woman, all giggles and groans.

He sits, in the almost empty inn, a few drunken stragglers in the corner laughing and starting mock-fights with one another, and drinks. And drinks, and drinks. And fiddles with his fingers, and flips coins in his hand, and sits in sadness. He wallows in self pity and pain and doesn’t even notice the girl from Jaskier’s bed walk by and out the door, her hair a little messy and dress not properly laced.

“Is that for me?” Jaskier says cheerfully and takes the second ale Geralt had ordered for himself into his hand, drinking loudly.

“it wasn’t,” Geralt says and doesn’t look at him.

“Maybe it was and you just didn’t know it yet,” Jaskier teases and drinks the rest. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem… is that my body longs for sleep yet my room is occupied,” Geralt sneers.

Jaskier laughs, pleased with himself. “ _Our_ room, Geralt. And she’s gone. You can go to sleep, grumpy Witcher.”

Geralt would very much like to, but the smell of that woman, and the smell of her on Jaskier, leaves him bitter. He knows what awaits him in that room. Jaskier wouldn’t have straightened the sheets. The smell of their lust would cling to the walls and the floor. The smell of sex on Jaskier would send Geralt mad all night long.

Jaskier’s fixing his hair and straightening his chemise and biting his lip - does he even know what he’s doing to Geralt, or is he completely oblivious? He notices Geralt staring and gives him a wink. There’s a bruise on his neck. “She was a bit rabid,” Jaskier grins.

It hits Geralt in the chest like an arrow. He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to think about it. Pretty little hands on Jaskier that aren’t his. Lips on skin that aren’t theirs. He waves a hand in Jaskier’s face, “Yeah yeah. Leave me be Jaskier. You should bathe, while we have the luxury of doing so.” He won’t admit it’s because he can’t stand the smell of her perfume on him.

Jaskier shrugs and stands. “Fine,” he says, and claps Geralt on the shoulder. “Don’t spy on me,” he jokes, in Jaskier’s odd sense of humour.

And it shouldn’t be Geralt’s fault that in that moment he imagines Jaskier in the bath, completely naked and chest hair on display. Maybe he’s got his legs kicked out of the bath, ankles crossed, and a goblet of wine in one hand. Maybe that woman didn’t satisfy him, maybe he’s got one hand -

Geralt shakes his head. Night after night, he watches Jaskier flirt and fuck. But never with him. He sighs and drinks.


	2. part two

Weeks pass, maybe months. Red and blue bruises come and go on Jaskier’s throat and it’s like looking at a painting of jealousy embodied; like another lover’s teeth have embroidered ‘ _look at me, i was here and you were not’_ on Jaskier’s skin for the world to see - _Geralt_ to see. They sneer at him and they’re _just fucking bruises_ but the colours force their way into his head, and the red makes Geralt seethe and the blue makes him suffer.

And as they go, Geralt sees more. He sees Jaskier soothe aching legs and wonders _why_ , _why are they sore, who were they around or beneath or on top of._ Black and blue finger shaped bruises make themselves known around Jaskier’s arms when they bathe in the stream one early morning. The rays of the sun roll over Jaskier’s skin and light it up like fire, and Geralt wants to use it to warm himself until the end of time.

Stretched down arms to unlace boots lift Jaskier’s chemise and reveal scratch marks clawed up his back from below his waistline and _why is there a fucking bite mark on his hip_. Jaskier unties his shoes and Geralt wants to throw him down and show him what a real bite is.

And so they travel, like this, Jaskier enjoying _fine company_ and Geralt wanting to fucking kill them. Words almost slip through his lips after too many ales and he wants to tell Jaskier that he can hear his fucking _blood_ pump and Geralt wants to wrap his hands around his neck just to feel the pulse there. And this is becoming unhealthy, because all he thinks about is Jaskier. Trying to fall asleep? Jaskier’s stupid blue eyes in his head. Trying to barter for supplies in town? Jaskier’s stupid _fucking_ mouth that never shuts up. And fighting monsters? He gets ruthless. Reckless. Stupid.

He’s gone out alone, fighting a Nightwraith that really doesn’t demand the use of potions but he drinks them anyway, because they make the thundering storm inside him feel like his to control and not the other way around. And he removes the threat swiftly, with ease, and heads back to town; dumps the nightwraith on the doorstep of the lord-mayor without collecting his coin and struts to the tavern. His body feels too small, like trying to contain lightning within his skin, and he hears too much and he smells too much and he _is_ too much. 

The door to the tavern swings wide and the first thing Geralt smells is _him_ and it smells like fresh rain and earth and firesmoke and _want_ , _need, sex,_ because of course Jaskier’s limbs are tangled like a kitestring around a woman who doesn’t have a fucking clue what Jaskier needs, not like Geralt does. And Geralt hears the tiny giggles from her mouth like it’s right in his ear and smells her _filthy_ lust and it makes him want to rip the room apart.

He’s a fucking sight, sweating from the fight with the nightwraith, hair let loose and dangling like vines in his giant, terrifying black eyes, surrounded by red veins; mouth all but snarling with two pointed teeth like daggers. And the big, rough hand wrapped around the door frame clenches too hard and a crack splits through the wood right up to the ceiling, and every neck snaps to look.

Jaskier.

Geralt is glaring right at him, at least Jaskier _thinks_ he is, because his eyes are completely black but his eyebrows are furrowed and his nose screwed up. And every part of Jaskier wants to run the other way because Geralt looks like he might very well disembowel the first person in the room he can get his hands on. But like a moth to a flame, he’s pulled towards Geralt by an urge he feels in his blood, bone, _soul_.

And Geralt takes a fistful of chemise in his hand and throws Jaskier out the door.


End file.
